


Core Mechanics and Mage Theory

by Pipsqueak (Skyhonni)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, F/F, F/M, History, M/M, MC has a name and is more of an OC, MC has a past best described as “that’s rough buddy” but like, MC is a Mage and Magic Theory professor, MC is a certified Book Sniffer, MC is not Straight ew get that shit away from me, MC uses they/them pronouns has a dick and dresses like they’ve been lost in an ikea for six months, Multi, Mystery, Other, Rhy seems like he's gonna be so damn smooth and hot and sexy with that deep voice, Sans (Undertale) Has Issues, Sans is like please touch me. oh my god please. but not sexually until it is, also he's like 30 but still wears leather and ripped jeans so like, also they used to fight crime, basically topside always had magic, different types of magic and mages, neither is Sans lmao, nerd nonbinary wants the time to peacefully stick their nose in some old ass books please, papyrus is so smooth he has to be physically ejected from a room MULTIPLE TIMES, raise your hand if you'd tap that (Papyrus raises both hands), sans is a core ‘mechanic’, solving issues from ten years ago while on a month-long time crunch, turns out he's an emo nerd who stutters at the mere suggestion of a cheek kiss, yes they wear cardigan sweaters over their button ups who the hell do you think I am
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27379645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyhonni/pseuds/Pipsqueak
Summary: Five hour long car ride? Check. Creepy locals? Check. Horrible magical energy? Check. Huge, haunted-looking self-opening manor gate? Check. Big fucking tree-dwelling mamal a few feet taller than Pap’s SUV? Check, even though he never thought that would ever end up on any list in the history of lists. So far, this little trip to Ko providence is not looking like a vacation Sans is willing to relax for, and he would like to leave as soon as possible, thanks.But when a broody human catches the eye of his little bro, he’s stuck for the longhaul. Sans finds an unlikely ally with the human’s work partner, a witch who can’t stay out of the manor’s library for more than five minutes.Sans hangs around because the library is quiet. No other reason. It’s not like the witch is funny, or cute, or easy to be around. That would just be silly.Turns out there’s murder afoot, and Sans is kinda highkey a fuckin hypocrite.-•-Aka:Undyne gives the bros a midnight call to solve a mystery ten years in the making, Sans gets Nerdy with a Mage Theory history buff, and Papyrus lays slick moves on a solid Ten like fucking Casanova.Also, the main characters are sort of bad ass.
Relationships: Alphys/Undyne (Undertale), Papyrus/OC, Sans (Undertale) & Reader, Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uh. Heyyyy. Haha. Wow. Look at you, reading this impulse-post. Welp. Here's to hoping I, like. I donno. Keep writing? Like in general

When they get to the tiny little town in the middle of the woods, the pit-stop before the destination, Papyrus goes wire-tense. The conversation they’d been half-heartedly slinging around about the best Subway sandwich meats by their own biased tier lists stops.

It’s damn near impossible to miss why; the vibe of the land around them is _off_. The earthly, grounding pressure of latent magic, the same kind that encapsulates any sort of green, lush area, beats here more like a sickly heart. Out of rhythm and unstable, it throbs against his bones the same way a dying animal’s pulse might against an arrow through the chest.

Rapid, then slow; unnervingly irregular.

“Well,” Papyrus starts, but the rest of what he was going to say dies in his throat. His whole face is pinched up.

Something is very, very wrong here.

Sans doesn’t move a muscle, figuratively, but he isn’t breathing anymore, either. He doesn’t need to anyway.

He has the impossible thought that even one little breath might set the fucking town off. Maybe explosively. A flash-bang of unstable energy so shaky it vibrates into a heated, nuclear reaction. He can see it when he closes his eyes, taste the dust on the back of his tongue as it hits his lungs—

Yeah, no. He wants his bro to live another day, thanks. So he doesn’t risk it, and keeps holding his breath.

People are stopping their walks and neighborly chit-chats to stare at his brother’s car as it passes, as if an unknown vehicle is a spectacle worth dropping whatever they’re doing for. One lady’s head snaps up from where she’s trying to unlock her SUV, and the hungry look in her eyes is downright animalistic.

The stares are heavy, not unlike an unwanted hand on your shoulder from a potentially violent stranger, and Sans can barely keep his present mind from slipping into the past—back when tight knee-high boots with puffy breeches were a thing. For some reason. Fuck if Sans knows why. The Judge’s memories are vague at best, as per the usual, and Sans disregards them as useless visions not worth his time. They typically go absolutely nowhere when he tries to puzzle them out, anyway.

What _is_ worth his time is the freaky, unwavering sets of eyes glued on their car like it’s some sort of unwarranted interruption to their daily, unified lives. Their gazes are hollow and burning. It reminds him of the human history documentaries he’s seen, starving masses glimpsing rations for the first time in weeks. Sans’s bones crawl with unease and his soul wishes to retreat even with nowhere else to go. How they’re tracking their movement, he half expects them to come swarm the SUV.

They stay put, though. As the car moves, as Papyrus grips the steering wheel tight and keeps his foot steady on the gas at a reasonable pace because he’s cool like that, they stand and stare, but nothing more.

Somehow, that’s a whole lot worse. Like a horror game that keeps the action nestled in the depths of progression, and they just haven’t gotten out of the car cutscene long enough to transition into the chase sequence.

Sans doesn’t dare say anything. He still has that irrational part of his brain telling him breathing might end up with his dusting, so he remains quiet. Pretends nothing is amiss, like he always does.

Papyrus’s hands on the wheel are stiff and tense. The land around them throbs like a hit bruise. Sans wonders what the hell is wrong with this providence’s Core for it to get this bad. If the car wasn’t quiet before—with their random bouts of bullshit that, for them, could be considered hardly a disturbance—it is now. Sans can almost feel the swiftly building worry wafting off of his brother like waves of heat.

He’s thinking about Undyne.

Shit, now _Sans_ is thinking about Undyne. If something happened to her—

No, no, the call had been short and sweet, not frantic. She’d said it was urgent, but Undyne treats every situation in her entire life as a dire emergency. Losing her socks, rushing to the microwave before it dings, going to the movie theater, grocery shopping, training—all done with the same intense, loud, and spastic energy.

She’s fine.

...Probably.

The GPS announcing the next turn almost makes Sans jump out of his jacket with how hard he jerks up to the ceiling, the seat belt digging into his ribs painfully from the abuse. Papyrus doesn’t flinch, but he slaps his hand down on the damn thing to shut it up in the middle of its sentence so hard he nearly cracks the screen.

When they turn onto a winding road heading out of town into the deeper part of the woods, Sans hopes of it being just within the town’s limits are dashed thoroughly. His unease doesn’t let up much, if at all, and the magic in the air is disgustingly sickly. Papyrus glances down at Sans from the corner of his eye socket the same time Sans looks up, and they have a second of wordless communication.

He isn’t breathing, either.

They’ll wait to speak when they feel it’s safe.

*

They haven’t spoken yet. Sans would’ve fallen asleep normally, but with how the energy around them grazes his bones like a writhing, slimey cold vine, he has zero chance. Instead, he spends his time staring out into the seemingly endless green.

It’s deceptively beautiful, like all dangerous things tend to be. They pass by two deer about half an hour into their drive, who completely ignore them as they graze peacefully on the undergrowth. They also see several small waterfalls, mostly on Sans’s side, cascading down the manmade ravines yards away from the paved road. The left offers brief glimpses of a rocky river, rushing wildly with the thawed snow of early spring.

It takes another twenty minutes of wooded nothingness and lazy hillside curves before Papyrus is told by the map on the GPS to turn left. Sans almost misses it, since the sound is still off, but Papyrus keeps his eye sockets peeled the closer their little blue arrow gets to the turn.

It’s into a dirt and gravel road, entrance marked only by a simple wooden sign that reads _Echo Lake_ in engraved white letters. The ceiling of the road is completely covered in a thick, leaning canopy of oak trees, creating a natural tunnel. The road is bumpy and the grass is too long, hitting the front bumper with autable _thawak_ s. Papyrus wordlessly switches to 4-wheel drive.

The weirdest part of it all is, the deeper they travel down the cramped path, the less sickly the magic around them starts to become... yet the leaves above and around them shift colors, and even farther down, fall as if they’re in autumn.

It’s _weird_ because it’s barely even fucking _March_. And Sans may be used to perpetual seasons, given his hometown, but damn if it ain’t odd to see it out on the surface.

The pulse of the earth underneath them evens out the moment they break through the canopy to stop dead at a huge, closed iron gate. It looks old, the style made of more curves, loops and spirals than a white human woman’s inspirational quote wall sticker, but the energy radiating from it is not unlike an electrical hum backed by thick, spotless and unbreakable steel. 

Unyielding. Firm. Strong. He hesitates at the mere thought of reaching his magic out to barely graze its intricacy. His instincts tell him it would hurt him more than he’s got the mental wards to withstand.

Sans doubts he could even take Tabitha to it, and she’s his biggest blaster. 

Well, that’s... concerning. To say the least.

The imposing stone gargoyles erected on either side give him another pause, mainly due to the stasis magic smothering them like a complex set of knots around the rough, weathered rock. It could also be the sheer size of the things, even without the pedistals; nearly six feet tall, and (for some stupid reason Sans can’t fathom besides the sculpter having a very prominent fetish,) they’re ungodly fucking ripped.

Or maybe what’s getting to him is the huge maws, open in a permanent snarl, that reveal glinting, ivory teeth. Why their teeth of all things have to be a completely different material is a question he’s sort of afraid to ask.

If he had to guess, and Sans _always_ has a _guess_ , these aren’t merely for decoration.

Everything about this place is so... unexpected, Sans doesn’t know where he can stand or what he can do without setting himself up for disaster. So he just sits in the car and waits.

Well, on the bright side: he can breathe freely now, at least.

Papyrus looks at the gate with a perplexed expression, as if he isn’t sure what to think of it or what the next step should be. The GPS instructions stop here. 

He glances at Sans and makes a gesture to the gate, obviously hoping his brother might help him figure out what the fuck to do, and Sans has a brief moment where he kinda wants to laugh hysterically just from that alone. Hell, Sans has no fucking idea what this place is all about, and he’s already seriously concerned about that midnight call.

Is Undyne even really here?

Papyrus opens his mouth to say something, and Sans turns to listen, when the gates clang and swing open with a swiftness that should be impossible for such an old set of hinges. They both shift in their seats to look.

In the middle of the road, fifteen feet or so into the barrier from the opened gate, sits a huge squirrel. And by huge, Sans means fucking gigantic.

It’s definitely _not_ a fellow monster. First of all, Sans would know them if they were. He knows everyone. That’s his thing. He used to get paid for it, even. 

Second of all, their energy is all earthy and deep, but in a jarring sense; like the feeling of falling that jerks him awake some nights. It’s completely alien. But it _is_ magic.

Third of all: he can’t check it.

He glances around for a mage—since they like carting their familiars around town like teacup chihuahuas no matter the size so why not the creepy woods at sundown?—but he doesn’t see anyone. It’s just him, his bro, the gate, the gargoyles, the woods, and a seven-foot squirrel sitting ominously in the way.

“Oh my,” Papyrus says, sounding both cautiously optimistic and exceedingly unsure of said optimism, and Sans rubs at his right eye socket, suddenly exhausted. “I was _going_ to say that the vibe of that town was absolutely horrid—thank the crystal stars this place is _so much better_ —and point out that the GPS has lost connection, which is just great, given our predicament about—” he checks the time on the GPS, “—seven minutes ago. But now...” he trails off, both hands on the steering wheel fanning out and shoulders shrugging, a mirror of Sans’s classic move that meant _i don’t fucking know what this is, but it sure is right in front of me right now_ he’d coined and patented about six hours into surface life.

It’s weird to see it on unswayable Papyrus.

“That’s... rather big for an animal of that species, don’t you think?” he continues aloud, talking his anxiety away as always, tapping his chin and narrowing his eye sockets at it thoughtfully.

Sans slumps farther into his seat. He wonders if mentioning Undyne right now would set him off in a frenzy.

Probably.

So he shouldn’t. He won’t.

“eyep.”

“Do you think it’s lost?”

Sans thinks he needs a good nap after this, that’s what he thinks.

“donno, bro. it’s in a forest, so probably not.”

“Those antlers aren’t usually on squirrels, are they? Or have I just not gotten an appropriately informative multi-providence animal textbook yet?”

Sans has no flippin’ idea. Hasn’t had a fucking clue about much of anything, really, not since he stepped up onto the surface. So he just shrugs.

Honestly, the more he thinks back on the expectations he had in the past about the surface, the funnier the whole situation gets. Their initial cultural ignorance stems from a conga line of hilarious coincidences so long it might span the whole of Ebott providence. 

“Do you think it lives in an appropriately sized tree?” Papyrus asks, hopeful.

Sans can’t help but snort.

Of all the things Sans’s mind is wandering off to, it certainly isn’t wherever his brother’s is. Which is usually a good thing. It does a great job of sidetracking Sans’s own thoughts, not that they’d been particularly productive. It’d mostly been the equivalent of several question marks and exclamation points alternatively being keyboard smashed into his skull at this point, so he needed the change.

“good question, bro.”

It stares at them with round, wide eyes, the irises a startling shade of molten gold and silver, shifting like water and oil. The beginnings of the sun setting began to tint the world around them red.

It abruptly stands, turns around, and begins to scamper up the road ahead. When it’s a ways away from where it started out, still within sight, it turns around and sits back down, eyeing them.

As if it’s waiting.

...Great. Sans loves that thought about as much as he misses perpetual snow in his sneakers.

“I get the feeling it wants us to follow,” Papyrus says, happy to finally have something tangible to work with, and, bless his soul, he starts the car and does just that.

The pass through the barrier is... something. It’s not unlike walking through an airlock and getting blasted with decontamination mist, except instead of chemicals it’s the heavy pressure of protective and defensive magic. It deems them worthy, it seems, as the car keeps moving and they don’t spontaneously combust. Sans decides to mark that off as a plus.

“neat. also, terrifying,” Sans mutters. Papyrus hums in agreement. There’s a pause, and then, because he might be fine with silence but he’s not that great with suspense and he’s been holding his tongue so far, “where in the lava are we going?”

“I have absolutely no clue, but the magic feels so much better already,” Papyrus says, his cheerfulness barely marred by his own scepticism.

There’s a few things Sans wants to do right now, and none of them are this. Yet, he gets the distinct feeling that if he stays behind like the smart person with two degrees that he is, Papyrus is going to not do that and continue on without him. Which has nothing to do with his lack of useless, expensive diplomas. Or general smarts, for that matter. Sans is the first person to admit his bro is _definitely_ smarter than him.

No, it’s because this all might be really uncomfortable and full of about a billion red flags, but what Undyne asketh, Undyne shall receive. Papyrus is nothing if not loyal to the point of self sacrifice.

He might’ve learned that from somebody. Donno who. Absolutely not Sans, nope.

Sans doesn’t have much of a choice, here. So he just makes himself comfortable and watches the squirrel guide his brother up the forested hill and into the thick of the woods. 

This road is not quite as claustrophobic as the one on the way to the gate, but he’s sure that’s only because the canopy is broken up by the trail and not that it’s any wider. The sky is red and the air is becoming misty, fog hovering over the treeline. The magic is solid here, just like it should be.

It’s not a road well-traveled, he notices. The remnants of worn-in tire tracks are grown over with vegetation, ferns and wild grass even thicker than the one leading through the tree-tunnel. The flattened greenery ahead of them is fresh, meaning the most recent cars here were the first in a long while.

When he looks back to the bottom of the hill before they lose sight of the gate for good, he catches the last few seconds of the iron doors closing by themselves.

*

So really. Being honest here.

The initial exasperation and tiredness with his current predicaments, when it comes to the surface in general, only overrides his fixation of the unexplainable for about ten minutes max before he’s back on his nerd bullshit.

He tries the human search engine on his Mphone for ‘big antlered squirrels’, but it’s got a total of zero bars and 5% battery left, so—Sans does the mental math—he’s got another 18 hours of runtime, if he squeaks by without looking at it much. That wouldn’t be that bad, except he has no idea if the place he’s going to even has electricity.

Welp.

Shrugging, Sans pockets his Mphone again and leans more heavily against the passenger door.

He watches their guide through half-closed sockets. Papyrus is prattling on about the new gymnastics group he joined last week, (a very obvious bid to poke his worry back with a stick made of long sentences,) and Sans listens with half an earhole just in case his name pops up. Usually he’d give his bro his full attention—even if he pretends not to—because whatever he says is either hilarious or interesting or both, but right now he’s got a mystery to solve.

Something is telling him he already knows what the hell it is. He just has to figure it out.

Yeah, okay, maybe he’s grasping for straws in his own type of coping mechanism. So fucking what.

He can’t help but notice the tail. It doesn’t twitch, or do the classic curl at the end. Instead, it sways side to side like a dog’s, in a downwards neutral position. And the gait—it’s less tree-climber hop and more steady trot.

As he watches, a tree branch almost hits the poor thing in the face. But at the last second, it sways up, and Sans hears a faint, apologetic hum deep in his soul from the trees—

Wait a minute.

He doesn’t feel anything _but_ the trees and the steady, gentle throb of magic, his bro, the creature ahead. No muddied interference like in the surface’s cities, where human, mage, monster and animal energies swirl up in the air, clogging and stifling the Core seeping up from down below. So, if he sits and closes his eyes and lets the magic run up his bones, just like at home, down into his soul—he can feel—

The thump, thump, thump of paws hitting the ground. But instead of ripples like a rock in a pond, the energy soaks through. Accepts it easy—then gives it back. A casual game of tug-of-war.

Silver and gold eyes—

...Is this a guardian? Is that what he’s seeing right now?

If he is, he kinda wants to submit some sort of redesign form or something. When someone says _guardian_ , he thinks of the dragon down below the mountain, living amongst lava to cradle the Underground’s Core in its razor sharp claws. Just because it has a friendly disposition doesn’t mean it looks cuddly or cute.

Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? Terrifying, because it’s the protector of not only the Core, but everyone else connected to it?

Or maybe this creature isn’t what it seems, but like, times two. An _ahh, gotcha_ sort of moment except it turns out to be an etriich monstrosity out to get his first newborn and his fair maiden honor.

Not that he has any. Babies, that is. Or honor, really. Cause he doesn’t.

But in all likelihood, this isn’t the only form it has. If it is what he even thinks it is. He has a good chuckle at himself at that. He’s running theories around like Alph connecting dots on her MewMew conspiracy board.

“I see a house!” Papyrus crows, breaking Sans out of his thoughts like a quick snap of a rubber band. He blinks blurrily, caught off guard, and turns his head. He realizes it might help to open his eyes a little wider, to see a huge building looming in the distance.

It’s old as dirt and a little overrun with vines and moss, but besides that it’s darn near pictureworthy. Mostly made of stone, it’s in the style of a small Victorian castle. It even has a tower on the left side, sticking up higher in the air than most of the roof.

Sans is surprised by the lack of gargoyles. He thought for sure the theme from the gate would extend here, of all places, but he can’t see any. Not even on the gutters. He’s kinda disappointed.

Out past the fenced garden, which looks just as wild but not less pretty than the woods surrounding it, is a makeshift parking lot. Gravel was recently haphazardly thrown over an empty field and then subsequently crammed with cars. He counts at least five, that he can see; most of them are nondescript, except a flashy, sleek black Tesla and Undyne’s stupid ass Hummer parked like a drunk after a nightly swim in the drink.

“where’s the moat?” Sans throws out half-heartedly, eyeing the possible-Guardian as it steps over the small garden gate to come sit near the door, waiting again. It’s stare is close to piercing. How Sans ever thought this thing was something other than a Guardian is kind of sad, really.

“I know you’re joking, and usually I would say the same thing _unironically_ ... but... but honestly I’d be a lot more worried if there _was_ one,” Papyrus mutters, cutting the engine and taking out the keys. “Would make this whole place a lot less friendly than it already is.”

Sans grunts in agreement, unclipping his seatbelt.

They both take a minute to examine the archiculture, waiting for the other to make the first move. Once Papyrus catches Sans’s eye and raises an eyebrow, Sans finally lets out a laugh. It’s a tiny chuckle, because this whole experience so far has not actually been all that funny. But it cracks his brother’s fake stoic mask into a relieved grin.

“Well, let’s not keep our new furry friend waiting,” he says, slapping his slacks-clad knee, grabbing up the manilla envelope thick with paperwork they’d gotten tasked with bringing before being shoved out of Undyne’s station. He opens his door rather abruptly, unfolding himself from his seat—then turns around and _slams_ the door closed roughly on complete accident.

He winces and pats the car in apology, the bones making a _clack-clack_ against the metal. He gives Sans a stern look through the window, which he probably deserves, and then strides his way around the car to the gate.

Sans thumps the back of his head once against the seat backrest—his skull doesn’t reach the headrest—sighs, and opens the door. He heaves himself out, making sure he doesn’t forget to clip on his waist bag, and wanders his way to the front of the castle-house.

Papyrus is already at the front door, where the probable-Guardian is letting him pet its snout as he thanks it for the directions. “The GPS stopped at the gate, so you were very helpful!”

The squirrel merely blinks, intense eyes boring into Papyrus’s eye sockets, a creepy version of a staring contest his bro didn’t even ask for. Sans stops a few feet from the first stair up to the front balcony and shoves his hands in his pockets. He tilts from the tip of his toe bones to the balls of his feet a few times, taking in the grand stonemasonry with a long, low whistle.

“rent must be through the castle tower,” he jokes. It’s not a good one. Papyrus lets out an annoyed huff.

“The Dnere family has lived on the Echo Land for generations,” a deep, raspy voice rumbles, and both the brothers stare, startled, at the squirrel. When it opens its mouth to talk, it very clearly displays a rather alarming amount of long, pointed, razor sharp teeth. Sans quietly discards his past complaint form into the metaphorical trash as the tell-tale prickle of sweat starts at the back of his neck.

Alright. A guardian doesn’t have to be overbearingly powerful looking to be creepy as fuck. Duly noted.

It continues steadily with, “They do not have to pay rent when the Land and people owe them a great deal in return.”

Papyrus, who has learnt by now that certain things with huge teeth are better left unpet, takes his hand back and clasps both firmly behind his back. He has a poker face as solid as steel, but that tends to give him away more than anything because he’s so dang expressive.

“uh, sorry. didn’t mean to offend,” Sans is quick to reassure, thinking _wouldn’t it be hilarious if we just got murdered by a seven-foot tall deer-squirrel in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?_

“I am not offended,” the Definitely-Guardian rasps, and then takes a few steps back on two feet to give itself enough room to bow. It’s not deep or particularly stiff, but Sans supposes he deserves something half assed and lackluster.

Papyrus, though. He deserves something a little more tasteful.

“My Keeper is in the courtyard with a few more of the guests. You may say hello and find a sleeping chamber in the left wing that meets your needs. However—” its eyes cut to Sans, and he tries his best not let his shoulders stiffen. They flicker off him just as quick, but the lack of gaze doesn’t mean anything to Sans, who feels watched even without them.

“Please be aware of her duty. She is busy in the daytime. By nightfall, she will be free to talk.” it pauses, and manages to look hesitant. “Do not mind her... _condition_. She will be fine. Her niece is your best resource for information.”

“Er, yes...” Papyrus flounders, highly fucking confused, and bows even deeper and more controlled, probably out of simple respect and not because he knows what he’s bowing _to_. Pap is a cool guy like that. “May I ask... is she ill? Can I help in any way?”

The Guardian studies Papyrus’s face, deems him a good bean, and then reaches over to pat _him_ on the head, like someone would an obedient dog. Sans fights the urge to get in the middle of them and simultaneously chokes back a wheeze.

“You are honorable and compassionate in your concern. But there is nothing you can do right now.” it pauses, seems to consider something, then adds, “Soon, she will be fine.”

“That’s very good!” Papyrus says, earnest as ever.

The Guardian gives him another pat. Papyrus tolerates this much better than a noogie. “I must be elsewhere. Good evening.”

Before they can ask more or return pleasantries, it tilts its head at them in one final goodbye gesture and then promptly disappears. 

It’s not a shortcut, he can always feel those. (Sans thinks back to the city, where all those damn Kroes popping in and out of existence give him a headache, and winces.) He’s not surprised a manifestation of the land around them can peace out at will. Just a little curious how it works. Just a lil smidge.

Papyrus blinks at the now vacant space, at a loss what to say momentarily. Sans slowly puts a hand up to curl around his mouth, hiding the bemused smile currently taking up real estate on his face.

“Well alright then,” Papyrus finally says, a strangled quality to his voice. “That may be the _least_ informative information I’ve gotten since—well, since your last Giftmas gift hint.”

Sans drops his hand to grin toothily at his bro, who still doesn’t know what he’s getting. That makes two of them; Sans has no god damned idea either. Procrastination at its finest.

They both glance at the front double doors at the same time. The knocker set within the door is a gargoyle, holding a slightly swaying ring in its fangs. Sans smiles a little smugly at it. So there _is_ something at least gargoyle-themed here, after all.

“should we go say updog?”

Papyrus moves to grab the knocker and opens his mouth to retort at the same time, then stops. Turns slowly. Glares at his older brother, who is trying and failing to look innocent from his position farther down the stairs.

“I will _not_ ask, Sans. But you should feel proper shame for your terrible taste in humor.”

“i do, bro.” he doesn’t. His Enjoys-Dad-Jokes-Unironically shame was left in a ditch somewhere down underground, probably near a pair of his frozen socks. “it keeps me up at night.”

Papyrus ignores him, and knocks on the door.


	2. Chapter 2

The dull sound of skin thwacking against skin echos faintly down the hall, through the ajar heavy oak library door. It’s propped open with a useless copy of _Magehood for Dummies,_ the only good use for that mockery of an educational text in Em’s opinion.

The witch themself is leaning against the solid wood end of a bookcase, leafing through an old tome with leather gloved fingers, a brisk yet careful pace. Can’t rip the pages; they don’t have it out for the Librarians and would rather not ever get on their bad side.

Their eyes skim the text with practiced ease, looking for something.

A jenga’d pile of similarly bound books are stacked to their left on a bench, within reach. As they near the last few pages, the line between their eyebrows creases deeper, and they let out a frustrated huff of air. Em snaps the book shut with one hand and places it at the top of the pile, pinching the bridge of their nose. They grumble incoherently for a second, wanting an outlet for their frustration but too tired to throw a fit.

Honestly. Why don’t these assholes make their jobs easier every once and awhile? Just throw them a bone at least _one time_ , is all they’re asking. Slip up, get cocky and blurt the secret code word, fucking hand over the schematics to the Core like it’s the Sunday newspaper comics, _something, anything_. They’re so done with this bullshit game of cat and mouse, where the mouse has no idea where to look and the cat is about fifteen different strays stacked in a trenchcoat who probably sells Echo Flower powder to newborn babies.

Another smack, accompanied by a cry of pain, carries down to the crack in the door. A low, deep voice murmurs something in response, but it’s too far to hear the words. Em looks around at the books lining the walls one last time, sweeping a searching hand around the unlabeled and chaotic shelves, before deeming them null and useless.

Straightening themselves, Em grabs up a smaller stack of books on a nearby desk and shoves them in their inventory, watching as they disappear with a slightly irritated but ultimately satisfied look.

Ahhh, good ol’ stealing. Brings back memories.

(Well, they’re technically stealing the books _back_ , but the owner of this library will never see it that way. Not even Em sees it that way, but for other reasons.)

Rubbing their hands lightly on their black duster to rid them of any leftover ancient-book residue, Em strides forwards to stick their boot out and nudge open the oak door wider, slipping through. The defensive wards on the door don’t trip; Em’s binding magic holds with a steady grip, but they are careful anyway. Can’t afford yet _another_ fucking explosion. One’s enough these days. They aren’t twenty anymore, dodging chalked runes on the floors of terrorist organizations and eating fast-food like it’s a vegetable. Now they have a _mortgage_. They don’t even qualify for life insurance, at least not on the books.

(Or maybe off the books too, now that they think about it. Lying bastards can’t be trusted with anything.)

Down the hall they go, closer and closer to the broken whimpering now easily heard through the wide-open bedroom door. They stop at the doorway, lean against it, fold their arms like they’ve learnt gets students all freaked out, thinking they did something wrong. Not that this guy’s gonna fall for it the same way college kids do.

It’s just kinda fun to play the disappointed teacher.

They watch passively as Rhy, all tall dark and mysterious in his leather hoodie and ripped jeans (Em thinks he looks more like a nerd than they do, and they wear _tweed_ ), crouches close to the kneeling figure of their captive. Who’s slumped forwards and bleeding irregularly from his nose onto the ancient, faded carpet. Next to the bastard, the chair he’d sat in just an hour ago is tipped over. Em eyes it with distaste before narrowing their gaze on his bloody, stupid puffy face.

A struggler. Rhy hates those. They make it harder on him to do his job without resorting to physical injury.

“Any luck?” Rhy asks, his baritone close to tired as it ever gets. Em doesn’t blame him. It’s been a minute since they’ve had some time to breathe, and the pain his captive radiates isn’t offering any relief to the poor guy. He can feel every punch and kick like a sadistic feedback loop.

Em has a brief moment of longing, wishing bitterly for the stale air of their stuffy classroom and the clatter of students flooding in for the morning lesson. Of Rhy’s workshop, wood shavings getting stuck in his clothing, his boots, his hair. The pub in the afternoon.

Seeing their best friend smile every once and awhile was nice, wasn’t it? Retirement was great. They want that back, desperately, with clinging fingertips to a ledge that was never there. Praying for it with gritted, sharp teeth.

(It was all wishful thinking. Some farce cooked up by idiots claiming to have it all under control while doing jack shit and calling it a day. It was never real, even though it _was_.)

(Gods, it _felt_ real.)

Em holds it for only a second before letting the longing fall to the ground like cut binds, because they have to. If they don’t do this, if Em doesn’t help in any way they can—

They don’t want to think about it.

(Stop thinking about it.)

Rhy leans back on his heels when they don’t answer right away and eyes his friend like he can see through the resting blankface. He can. That critical gaze reminds Em that a question was asked.

Right.

They shake their head and sigh. Rhy’s lips thin. “No. He gave the wrong description. All the leather bounds are null. I took back the few magical ones I could find, but...”

“But he lied,” Rhy finishes, not sounding in any way surprised. It’s expected at this point.

Nobody’s giving them anything these days, not without brute force or mind games. But what else can they do? Stride up to the core and put a fucking bandaid on it? Duct tape? Metaphorical glue and string only go so far.

The figure on the floor finds it within himself to wheeze out a little giggle. It’s sort of pathetic. All Em hears is _haha, I have a powerful book with all the answers, but I’m not gonna give it to you because I’m evil._ Stupid idiot.

“Hilarious,” Rhy says, a deadpan rumble that’s been known to raise the hairs on the back of seasoned Seeker’s necks. The captive tries and fails to hide a flinch. “Do you think this is nothing to us, or have you forgotten that we are running around trying to save your kin, _liit_?”

The nickname carves somewhere deep, as it tends to with people who’re part of all of this, and the man on the ground rears back to bare his blunt teeth and snarl out, “Fuck off, you fucking shithead. You’re no better than me, and you ain’t my family, asshole.”

“I’m not,” Rhy agrees, his hood bobbing as he nods. “That’s one thing we are both grateful for, I assure you. But I _am_ better than you.”

Ouch. Em stifles a laugh.

The man hocks from the back of his throat and is just about ready to spit in Rhy’s face. Em has a swell of protective anger at the mere suggestion and slides their duster’s sleeve up and raises their hand.

The spit never leaves his lips. He’s eyeing Em’s hand now, as if just now seeing them. The presence of their sharp energy in the air _could_ be a not-so-nice reminder of being dragged through the hallway like a ragdoll, face pressed down against the splintering wood and rough carpet as they went. Or maybe it’s the glint of gold and onyx dangling from their wrists that catches his eye. It’s certainly out of place on a person who looks as if they eat calculus textbooks for dinner.

Either way, he takes the threat at face value and swallows. Says, “Whatever. He’s not even worth it.” It comes out just a tad too desperate to sell his unbothered demeanor. 

Amatuer.

Em’s bracelets jingle as they fold their hands back once again, and they find a moment to feel smug in the silence that follows.

“Foo,” Rhy starts, turning slightly to talk to them, “we—”

There’s a burst of static noise, and all three heads snap up at once to see the familiar sight of a Kroe sliding into reality through the Void, landing gracefully on the edge of the tipped over chair’s seat. Its feathers rustle slightly as it folds its wings.

“HELLO. RASIER HAS NEWS. PROCEED?” the Kroe’s voice has taken to mimicking Rasier’s, but not his volume. It’s as if the thing is making up for his natural murmur by screeching like a banshee. Damn bird.

“No,” Rhy says quickly, standing up and dusting off his jeans. There’s some blood on his bare knee through the fashionably ripped denim from kneeling in the splash zone. “Foo, take the call in the library.”

“I don’t trust these walls,” Em says, glancing around them and shaking their head. “I’ll be outside.”

“Splitting up so soon?” their captive taunts, a terrible move to make in their position. “I might have a friend ’round here, are you sure that’s the wisest—” Rhy doesn’t grace them with much of an answer besides a light kick to the ribs, hitting an already sore spot. The captive doubles over, wheezing, and Rhy gives Em one of his rare pleading faces as he rubs his own ribs as subtly as he can over his coat.

It kills Em a little.

He wants this whole night to end, Em knows. He doesn’t want to be in this old house, beating up some murderous idiot, feeling the pain like a stabbing echo. And Em understands—of course they understand. They don’t want to do any of this either.

(And look where that got them. Doing it anyway. What a load of bullshit.)

Em reaches over, places a hand on his shoulder. Grasps his energy with their own to let a seed of healing take root, spread out and into his veins. The bruising is going to be ugly come tomorrow morning without it. If they offer a booster now, maybe the damage won’t be so bad.

The relief is near impossible to spot in Rhy’s stoic features without years of knowing him. He’s learned to ignore pain for the sake of his own safety—you can’t show weakness when someone’s already got a knife to your throat—but it’s hard to pretend it isn’t there when he starts breaking other’s bones.

Em pats his hooded head. Rhy pretends to be annoyed by this and glares down at their captive as Rasier’s Kroe flutters over to perch on Em’s right shoulder, because the asshole is just as lazy as his owner.

“Right.” Em turns around and is halfway out the door before throwing “Don’t kill him too loudly, Ray’s probably half awake,” over their shoulder just to freak the bastard out.

*

Oh, great. They got invited to the mockery of a think-tank.

*

Going back to Echo Valley is kind of like getting hit in the nuts by a jaded ex lover and then slapped upside the taint with old love letters. It includes papercuts and quite a bit of screaming, with at least one threat of lawsuit in the future.

To avoid the lawsuit, they just skip going through town all together.

Em hates to love this place. They spent way too long hiking up these hills and mountains trying to figure out an angle, a way in, the key to everything, to seriously pretend that the threat they faced took anything away from the beauty of their surroundings. It just made the swaying ferns and chirping birds and rustling trees all the more valuable. All the more essential.

All the more worth the risk.

Even now, with the sickly magic and unwelcoming atmosphere, Em feels a bittersweet twang close enough to fierce fondness that it nearly knocks them off their steed when they break past the outskirts of the town and back into the forest. They stay seated, barely, and keep Nip at a steady pace.

 **Emotional? Gonna piss from the eyes?** Their familiar pokes, amused.

“I’m not gonna fucking cry,” Em says, rolling their suspiciously wet eyes. They smack the back of her head, which hurts them more than her. “Shut up.”

Honestly, they’re glad Nip is such a brat sometimes. It might seem counterproductive, but it sure does help pull Em out of their broody mental run-arounds and into something light-hearted and not about death, murder, or—

Or.

Nip chuffs. **Whatever helps you sleep at night.**

“I don’t,” they point out, mostly to get back at her for being a little shit, “not lately. You know that.”

 **_Well_ ** _..._ Nip says, tone vague, and leaves it at that. She has at least one ounce of decency somewhere in that thick stone head of hers, and it only comes out to play when the need is dire. **You looking forward to rehashing old arguments and fighting Core mages for the right to speak in group meetings?**

Em groans. Fuck, no, they aren’t. They just wanna get in there, solve the issue, and fuck off back to their classroom. Why this whole ordeal has to be entangled with stuck-up Core mages and blatant racism is still a point of contention for them.

“Gods, it’s like you reach right into my worst nightmares and pull out the most mundane yet infuriating bullshit.”

 **It’s cause I love ya,** she says, sickly sweet, then, **also because you got on my ass the whole time we were here last time.**

“Only because you were acting _shifty_. Speaking of, how do you feel knowing Sven’s going to be there to greet you at the gates, hmm?”

 **I feel like kicking you off my back and letting you walk the rest of the way,** she snaps, actually irritated. Yikes. Okay, bad subject.

“Ouch. I’ll shut up.”

They settle in a little more into the saddle, glad for the padding it provides. Not to say riding on an actual fucking ten-ton rock isn’t luxury, but like... it’s not ideal for their fleshy, easily-bruised ass.

The air around them is tainted with festering energy rot. When they’d been here last, the effects had only just started. Em knew, abstractly, that it could, and would, get worse with time—but they’d never imagined how bad it’d become.

It weighs them down like gravity magic, heavy and slow. If Em wasn’t a witch, it’d be so much worse. Small mercies, they guess.

 **We’re here,** Nip says after a few minutes of running along the side of the road, slowing down until she’s at a stop right in front of a familiar wooden sign.

She regards it with a good fistful if disdain. **Wow. Brings back those fresh, sexy traumatic memories. Remember when that one crazy bitch chipped my ear?** She flicks said ear, the solid, carved onyx still missing a thick chunk. **Good times.**

“Said crazy bitch is going to be there, probably,” Em reminds her, wincing. They _also_ aren’t looking forward to that little reunion. “Unless she finally kicked the bucket.”

 **It’s like you want me to just leave you to walk your sorry ass the next few miles,** she grumbles, but starts trotting her way down the road anyway. **Where’s Rhymond? I can’t feel Jaz anywhere.**

“Took his new car,” they laugh, thinking back to Jasmine’s horrified indignation. Nothing’s more insulting to a familiar than getting ignored in favor of an automobile.

 **Yikes** , she says, **Poor Jaz.**


End file.
